Perhaps unsurprisingly, in view of his volatile nature,
Cornelius divided opinion. Quiet
subversive types secretly delighted in his volcanic outbursts; mild mannered,
easy going types (often the types who also frown upon others) despised him; the
gregarious and equally (though not quite
equally) combustible characters felt both comradeship and revulsion (revulsion since
they are often the types who do not like their thunder stolen, or broadcast air space invaded).
In many respects, Cornelius was a soul divided. He loved, and he hated. One minute he would
be caressing with his left hand, the next, fighting with his right. There was little or no middle ground, no sitting
on the proverbial boundary fence. And,
of course, his countenance was as ever changing as the British weather: when
buoyant his features were as bright and gay as a Spring morning; when the
crimson tide of anger rolled in, his jaw became set, his tone cutting and
scornful.
Social hand grenade, or party popper. It could be difficult at first hand to decide
whether you would suffer Cornelius’ verbal shrapnel, or delight in the
colourful puzzle of fluorescence, as he might otherwise come across.
Drink was typically at the centre of things for Cornelius. Often the brown stuff. After several Whiskeys, Cornelius, if aroused
would morph into a modern-day Lord Byron, if angered, he would kick around like
a wasp-stung ass, turning over tables and chairs. He had the wrath of a Roman God, and in
fairness, every now and again, the poise.
When Cornelius was feeling affably drunk, he would clap me
on the shoulder and remind me his name was of Roman origin. But I could only bring to mind Dr Cornelius
and then, without too much of leap (especially in present company, furthermore,
if we were out picnicking on a Saturday afternoon in the municipal park) La Planète Des Signes. There is (or was) also Cornelius Vanderbilt,
an American rail road tycoon, and Cornelius, a third century Pope. Amen.
It’s a shame the Cornelius I knew won’t be remembered (at
least for the right reasons) by very many people. Whether you liked him or not, people of his
ilk are worth their place in your life, at worst, simply in the way the can help solidify
your own sense of identity. You can
define yourself against them by saying: ‘Well, I’m not like him’, or, ‘I would
never do/say that!’. Thing is, more
often than we care to admit, we are thinking, wanting to do the same thing, but we
don’t let on. Which is more noble? Which is more true to the Self?
(Truly, I’m damned if know).
Anyhow, Cornelius had the potential to be a great artist,
although he could not stick at any discipline for very long. It would be sculpture one month (the perfect
medium for him to let out his worldly frustrations), oils the next (more
sympathetically composed amidst the crumbling remains of various busts, and
half formed heads), acrylics thereon (hurriedly painted over sheets of glass
taken from his own studio windows), and so forth.
I remember he asked me to sit for him once, so I did. I was rather intrigued. But following perhaps half an hour of
preliminary sketches, he emerged from behind his easel and announced it was
time for lunch, a lunch from which we never returned owing to copious amounts
of wine with our cheese course.
After Cornelius’ death I tried to find the unfinished
portrait among the dust, grime and general detritus of his derelict studio, but
could not, and consider it a shame to this day.
It would have been the perfect memento mori to a fast, incandescent and
yet unfulfilled life, brimming with, in the end, unrealised promise, now half
buried in the low tide of collective memory.
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